


As the Days Keep Turning Into Night

by WritingQuill



Series: Prompts et al [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Not series 3 compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> John could see Sherlock playing, facing the window with closed eyes, head tilted to the side as his fingers worked the chords and his bow dragged along the strings, bleeding the sound out of them. John felt a shiver up his spine as he took off his coat and walked to sit on his chair. </i> </p><p>Prompt fill for <a href="http://twistingsurface.tumblr.com/">twistingsurface</a> on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As the Days Keep Turning Into Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for [twistingsurface](http://twistingsurface.tumblr.com/) who asked: "I have this headcanon in which John is moving back into 221B after Sherlock came back (say there wasn't a Mary or he decides to go back to his true love) and Sherlock gifts John a self written piece for his violin. One evening John will ask Sherlock to play it on the violin for him. So Sherlock plays it and John sits in his armchair listening."
> 
> Hope you like it :)

It had taken John less than three weeks to forgive Sherlock. However it had taken considerably more than that for him to agree to move back to Baker Street. 

After two years of mourning, after countless sleepless nights, worsened nightmares, sleep-deprived hallucinations, after dealing with the loss and coming to accept the pain as a constant, numbing companion, Sherlock had returned, expecting to be forgiven, expecting to be welcomed with open arms and heart, with smiles and quips.

Sherlock hadn’t been surprised when John punched him. 

He had when John left, though. 

And four months later, there John was, looking up at the façade of the only place he’d called home since his parents’ house. No much had changed since he’d moved out two years before, but Sherlock did bring the chaos and cacophony back with him. As John unloaded his boxes from the hired moving truck, he could hear some clatter coming from upstairs. Of course Sherlock would never help him bring his things up, why would he? That would mean pointless effort, energy his powerful brain could not afford to lose. 

With a snort of derision, John continued to unload, then unlock the door and finally move back in. 

John was glad to be back. 

*

On a sunny Wednesday afternoon, John left work in a contemplative mood. He chose to walk slowly because the sun was still shining and he wanted to soak up in it as much as he could before the rain arrived. It had been a rather boring day at the surgery, thinking back. Hay fever, hay fever, rosacea, sprained ankle, hay fever, hay fever. And yet he hadn’t been bored. Just one of those days, John mused as he took a right on Marylebone High Street — it was the longer way back, but he just felt like _walking_ today. 

It took John less than ten minutes to cross the street and turn on Paddington Street, and from there Baker Street was only another ten minutes away. 

The wind blew strong, leaves flew by as John walked at a leisurely pace, more people-watching than anything. A light brown Dachshund on a leash tried to sniff his shoes, but the owner soon pulled him away with an apologetic smile. She was good-looking: medium hight, shoulder-length light brown hair, blue eyes, pink lips; she looked to be around his age, given by the creases around her eyes, and she was wearing jeans and a hoodie, clearly just taking the time to walk her dog. At another time, John might have stopped to chat with her, maybe get her number, go on a date, try something. Lately, though (and if John were to be honest, around the time Irene Adler dropped into their lives), he had been less and less inclined to date. So he simply smiled back and walked on home. 

As soon as John opened the door to 221, he heard it. From up the stairs, a sorrowful, slow melody that seemed to be building up slowly. The noted were careful, and the violin seemed to be whispering secrets that, climbing the stairs, John longed to decipher. 

The door to the flat was open, so John could see Sherlock playing, facing the window with closed eyes, head tilted to the side as his fingers worked the chords and his bow dragged along the strings, bleeding the sound out of them. John felt a shiver up his spine as he took off his coat and walked to sit on his chair. He just watched, marvelling at Sherlock’s posture, how poised and beautiful and at ease he looked, bathed in the orange light from the window, cheekbones and chin highlighted by the sunset, brow furrowed in concentration. 

The piece stretched on for several more minutes, reaching highs and lows, building up to a joyous climax when the strings sang merrily, and John could feel that there was very personal, close to Sherlock in it, almost like a part of his heart was melted in the notes, binding them together, tracing them, and as the piece neared its end, John was breathless. 

Sherlock finished pointedly, impeccably and deliberately, as he did everything. He bowed his head for a second, seemingly to take a breath, before turning to face John, who in turn was watching his friend, wide-eyed. 

‘Hello, John,’ Sherlock greeted, finally, his deep baritone making the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up. 

‘That was… beautiful, Sherlock,’ John said, still hardly able to speak. Sherlock hummed and set the violin down on its case, still standing by the window, still bathed in the fading sunlight. 

‘It’s a personal composition,’ Sherlock explained. John smiled. 

‘I should have known, it’s truly extraordinary.’ 

That got him a sad grin. John suddenly wanted to stand and hug Sherlock, the feeling was overwhelming, so he grabbed the arms of his chair and focused on sitting down.

After long minutes, Sherlock finally continued, ‘I wrote it while I was… away.’ 

_Away_ was the word they used the describe the two years Sherlock was “dead”. Neither of them were comfortable enough to broach the subject ever again, not yet anyway, since there was still too much pain, it was too tender a wound to poke at. Someone once said that euphemisms were necessary to make life tolerable, and John was living it now. Living on euphemisms and fines and okays, hoping that one day he’d be courageous enough to step forward, to take a stand, to _not_ be so apathetic about his own life. 

At that statement, John frowned. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘How? Your violin was here.’ 

‘In my Mind Palace, I found that… when my brain was occupied with thoughts I couldn’t stop, thoughts of cases in London, Baker Street… you… it was easier, calmer when I composed,’ he said quietly, almost a hushed whisper. His voice was trembling. So was John’s hand. 

‘So this piece…’ 

Sherlock looked up, his eyes were clouded, dark under his eyelids, he raised his chin ever-so-slightly: defensive. John could read him easily these days, but not now. Not when so much was hanging in the balance. 

‘It’s for you, John.’ 

They started at each other for what seemed like hours, years even. John’s heart was pounding in his chest as Sherlock’s voice echoed in his mind. The silence loomed over them like the darkness that was spreading outside as the sun bid its goodbye for the day. John could only see Sherlock’s silhouette now, highlighted by the orange of the street lamps this time, glowing like a creature from Heaven. With a sigh, John stood. Parade rest. Nod. 

‘John, I…’ Sherlock began, but John was in front of him, towering him for all he was shorter, and they were silent once more. The quiet was calming this time, if a little tense. John was gathering his courage, finally, _finally_ , to make a move that would possibly change his life forever. 

But would it really? The added change could only be a bonus, the proximity, the intimacy… the love. John wanted that, so bad, and Sherlock’s confession pushed him to make one of his own. It was time, no more delaying. 

He looked deep into Sherlock’s eyes and then leant in, putting one of his hands on the back of Sherlock’s neck to push him forwards just so. Sherlock went without protest, even if he looked a bit dumbfounded. In seconds, their breaths mingled, and then their lips met. Heaven took a new meaning for John with Sherlock’s warm lips pressed against his own. 

As if struck by lightening, Sherlock suddenly tense, and began to move just as suddenly. One hand cupping the back of John’s head, the other on his waist, and John followed suit, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, pulling him closer so that their chests and hips touched; their mouths moving in unison, tasting and sensing, lips opened and tongues teasing. Sherlock tasted of mints and coffee, it was so good, John couldn’t get enough. He was surrounded by Sherlock, by his arms, his taste, his smell of Formaldehyde, rosin and _Bornéo 1834_ , intoxicating and so, so Sherlock it almost hurt. John held on to dear life as they kissed, drinking it up like a thirsty man in an oasis. 

Breathless and euphoric, they pulled apart, breathing into each other’s mouths and touching foreheads. Then John grinned and giggled, Sherlock soon did the same, and their bodies shook with mirth. 

‘Thank you for the piece,’ John whispered as he looked up at Sherlock with bright eyes. Sherlock in turn smiled widely and pressed a sweet peck on the corner of his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> The title comes from the song "All My Days" by Alexi Murdoch. 
> 
> Also, just as a reminder, I _do_ take prompts, if you would like a fic written for you, or as a gift. My [ask box](http://writingquill.tumblr.com/ask) is open for requests!
> 
> Cheers x


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